


Heroin

by George_Sand



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Sherlock comes down from heroin, mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9432593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Sand/pseuds/George_Sand
Summary: Molly begrudgingly allows Sherlock to withdraw at her flat.Molly knew the worst of the withdrawal process was yet to come.She said, "I’m going to bed.  You’re safe, you just need to come down.  When you vomit you’d better do it in the bowl or you will be replacing my couch and my rug, you understand?  And if you’ve got more heroin on you and you shoot up in my house I swear I will throw you out in the middle of the night and you will not come back”.





	

          It was a summer day outside St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and Molly Hooper was happy to be leaving the morgue.  She had done a particularly difficult post-mortem today (she always struggled when her subject was a child) and the hot sun and slight breeze were invigorating.  She felt her heart lighten as she walked back to her flat.

          Molly had forgotten to bring her phone to work that day, but she hadn’t expected any particular calls, and hadn’t thought much of it when she noticed its absence at work.  When she got home and found it in her kitchen, however, she froze.  Molly had missed eleven texts within the past hour, two from John Watson and the rest from Sherlock Holmes.  She even had two missed calls from Sherlock.  Sherlock, who always, always preferred to text.  There was no voicemail alert, but the situation was obviously urgent if Sherlock had called, so she returned the call without hesitation.  No answer.  She didn’t leave a message, but hung up and immediately called John, who answered with a tired voice. 

           Without preamble he said, “Sherlock’s been using again. Heroine, I assume.  He’s gone out, Mrs. Hudson doesn’t know where, and Lestrade and even Wiggins haven’t seen him.  Molly, I just got back from an hour of walking round to his favorite holes, but I haven’t found him.  I don’t suppose he came to St. Bart’s today?”

          “No,” said Molly, frustrated.  “What can I do to help?” 

          John sighed.  “He hasn’t used for a long time Molly, not since you did the drug test.  He’s usually full of remorse, and very humiliated, when he comes down, so we might not see him until that’s subsided a bit.”

           Anger and concern fought inside Molly as she told John she’d keep an eye out for Sherlock, and ended the phone call. 

          That bastard.  He had been doing so well.  What could have brought this on?  Boredom? Wiggins? Resurfacing cravings?  She decided not to ruminate, and closed her mind to the subject.  She had had a mentally trying day already; she didn’t need this to worry about, especially since there was nothing she could do.  Too tired to do much else, she made tea, toast, and eggs, and sat in front of the telly.  After a while she wound down in a warm shower and went to bed.

          The sound of the intercom jolted her awake.  It was only 11:00p.m., but it was much too late for Molly tonight.  Who would ring her buzzer at this time of – Sherlock.  Of course.  High-out-of-his-bloody-mind Sherlock.  Molly knew he needed a safe place to come down, and though she hated to be the one to provide it, she decided she should.  She buzzed him up, unlocked the door, and waited on the couch.  Thirty seconds later he burst through the door, crying her name.  She shot him a disgusted look before watching him sink to his knees. 

          “Molly,” he said, weakly, and put his elbows and forehead on the ground. 

          She walked around him to close the door. 

           “Sherlock, I’ll give you a safe place to withdraw but don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

          Sherlock raised his head and gazed up at Molly in awe. 

          “You’re alright.  You’re alright.  Molly, you’re alive.  Alive.  Molly.  Alive,” and tears ran down his face.

           “Of course I’m alive,” snapped Molly, “I’m not the one self-harming with…with what, anyway?  Give me the list.”

          By now everyone knew of Mycroft’s command to Sherlock, Sherlock’s obedience, and the utility of the result.  Sherlock removed a scrap of paper from his pocket and Molly snatched it out of his hand.  As she glanced at it, she felt relief that it was “only” heroin and not a Sherlockian cocktail.

          “When,” she asked.

           “About 6:00”

          “P.M.?”

           “Yes”

           “So it’s been about 5 hours,” aloud, and then to herself, “the worst is yet to come”.  

           She saw the tremors in his hands (delirium tremors, likely) and his almost imperceptibly trembling torso (chills, no doubt).  She also noticed the flared nostrils caused by nausea.  Molly grabbed a large bowl from the cupboard, helped (practically yanked) Sherlock up from the floor, and pushed him onto the couch.  All the while, Sherlock stared at her in wonder.

           Noticing his continued astonishment she repeated waspishly, “Yes, I’m alive, what is this about”?

          “Oh Molly, I’ve never seen that, I’ve never hallucinated like that, you were right there, right there on the ground, cold,” and to himself, “and this was less than my personal maximum dose, I must record this when I get back to Baker Street…” 

          He shivered and Molly thrust the bowl into his hands. 

          “I’m going to bed.  I’m safe, you’re safe, you just need to come down.  When you vomit you’d better do it in the bowl or you will be replacing my couch and my rug, you understand?” 

          Sherlock nodded, wide-eyed.

          Molly continued, “and if you’ve got more heroin on you and you shoot up in my house I swear I will throw you out in the middle of the night and you will not come back”. 

          Immediately after saying them, Molly thought the words had been too harsh, but Sherlock just nodded meekly with tears in his eyes.  

          “There’s no more, you can search me, my coat, if you’d like.”

          “No,” said Molly curtly.  “I believe you,” and stomped off to bed.  There were throw cushions and a quilt on the couch, Sherlock could figure it out by himself. 

          Surprisingly, Molly fell right back to sleep and only woke up when the sun shone through her bedroom window, about 8:00a.m. Remembering the previous night, she growled to herself and wished she was expected at Bart’s today, just so she’d have an excuse to leave Sherlock to himself.  As it was, however, she felt a sense of duty to him and her thoughts softened a bit. 

          Sure he would still be asleep, Molly took her time getting dressed and ready.  Finally, she walked, making no attempt to be quiet, down the hall to the couch.  As she predicted, Sherlock was bundled in her quilt, curled up as tight as his long limbs would allow.  His head was on the pillow and his (beautiful, Molly admitted to herself) hair was damp and wild.  Surprisingly, the bowl was empty and his tremors were gone, and Molly remembered his statement about a less-than-maximum dose.  Knowing he wouldn’t be easily disturbed, she knelt by his head and brushed the irresistible curls away from his face.  Away from the quick eyes, away from the mouth that articulated what only he could see, away from the forehead that guarded his brilliant intellect.  Indignation sparked in Molly’s chest and surrounded her heart in flames.

          “Why?!” she almost yelled at the ceiling. “How could you do this?  Your gifts…your friends…our trust!”

          She was shocked to feel a clammy hand around her wrist.

          Sherlock’s eyes opened a few millimeters and he said, “I am sorry, Molly.  Please forgive me.”

          The pathetic look on his face softened Molly’s anger – but only a little.  Not willing to watch any more of his withdrawal, she stood, grabbed her bag and stalked to the door. 

          “Do _not_ throw up on my couch,” she warned before she left. 

          She stayed away for several hours. After a time, she got a text from John:

_I have Sherlock at Baker Street.  Thank you for watching over him._

          “Watching over him,” Molly thought, rolling her eyes, “more like yelling at him”

\--

          About a week later, Sherlock buzzed her apartment, unannounced.  Molly let him in and they said careful, slightly formal hellos.  She sat with him on the couch.  To Sherlock’s surprise, and her own, she took off his jacket, undid the left cuff button, and rolled up the sleeve.  She could still see the injection site.  To Sherlock’s horror, and her own astonishment, she leaned forward and kissed it gently.  

          “Why, Sherlock?” 

          “Why does anyone do anything?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

          “At times I find that external stimulus temporarily heightens my deductive abilities, and …” he trailed off under Molly’s unimpressed stare.

          “Why, Sherlock.” more a command than a question.

          “I don’t know, Molly.” 

          He looked at his arm. 

          A few moments later he murmured “It was so real, so real.” 

          He looked at her again, as if still reassuring himself that she was alive. 

          “Please forgive me."

          Molly was silent for a few moments before she stroked his wound with one finger, then pulled him to her chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed, feel free to send merciless feedback!


End file.
